


Can't live with; Can't live without with

by dalliancee



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, I Tried, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalliancee/pseuds/dalliancee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never easy to stay. But it isn't easier to run away, in this case either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't live with; Can't live without with

Napoleon wakes at dawn, and feels like a million nails have been hammered into his skull the previous night. He doesn’t stir and shift despite the urge to smoothen out his muscles. He instead lets his pair of blue eyes drink in the sight of the sleeping form that’s lying right in front of him once he detects a presence close by.

 

  
It’s Illya, and Napoleon makes himself ignore the way his heart lurches.

 

He’s just not used, Napoleon begins to convince himself, he’s just not used to the Russian sharing such little space with him. He’s just not used to the sight of the Russian looking so peaceful when they are around each other. He’s just not used to the fact that Illya is here with him.

 

Illya is never here with him, not like this, not since the last time Napoleon saw Illya in the exact same way he sees him now.

 

Napoleon doesn’t blame Illya, actually. He may always taunt the Russian, and spew vicious words to wake the beast within the other like he deserves a throne of thorns, but he knows. Napoleon knows he’s the reason that they have come to this, to a limbo that they can’t claw out of. They hate, and lo- get pulled back together.

 

  
He dares himself to drag a finger across the blonde’s face after brief scraps of last night’s activity tags alongside with waves of dull ache and make their way into his head. He knows he can, because Illya’s probably way too knocked out by the alcohol to be conscious right now. The Russian may be a pillar of strength and power, but not so much when it comes to the hot, burning scotch he drank repeatedly yesterday.

 

  
Ah, right.

 

  
Yesterday.

 

  
_“You can keep on pretending that you’re a masterpiece like the art you stole, or the expensive suits you hide yourself in, but Solo,” Illya spits mockingly as they crash into the wall with unsteady steps, bodies pressed against each other. “Napoleon Solo, you are nothing but pretence. You don’t have anything of your own.”_   


 

  
Napoleon stops and retracts his hand, which he remembers he used to punch Illya at his jaw yesterday. They had a huge fight again, as usual. Gaby doesn’t even come by to stop them anymore - she stopped trying, just like them. Somehow, through the months after Napoleon made the decision to walk out on Illya, they all stopped trying.

 

  
Illya stopped trying to make sense of Napoleon’s escape and assumed the easiest reasoning was that it’s just the American being his usual, irresponsible and jaded self. Gaby stopped trying to mend their broken friendship, and behaved more like a handler than a family ever since.

 

  
“It’s my fault,” Napoleon concludes quietly as he shifts his vision downwards slowly, and looks at all the cuts and bruises that are showing on Illya’s bare torso. “It’s all mine.”

 

  
Napoleon’s the one who couldn’t stop showering affection on Illya after working together on countless operations. He’s the one who wouldn’t stop ignoring Illya’s protests as he invaded the other’s personal space daily just to spend more time with him. He’s the one who made the first move, to drag their bodies close to seal their lips together after succeeding in a particularly hard mission.

 

  
He’s also the one who suddenly got a huge pang of panic after he found himself smiling at Illya’s sleeping form, and told the Russian to get out of his room.

 

  
_“I mean, I can get you the usual treatment like I did for all my one night stands, with a courteous treat to breakfast before sending them off… but do you really need that, Peril? I’m sure you can manage — well, that punch says a lot about your ability to take care of yourself on your way out.”_   


 

  
He’s the one who broke Illya that morning.

 

  
(And maybe himself, as he downed glasses of scotch unstoppably with the bathtub bracketing his sunken frame, but he will never admit it.)

 

  
Fights followed so frequently afterwards. Illya is never good with confusion, and anger’s always his first reaction to everything. So whenever they spoke, they fought. They shove each other into the closest furniture and threw punches anywhere they could while purposely saying all the things that they knew would hurt (‘ _Yes, I slept with you — so what? I slept with other people too. You don’t see them making a big fuss like you did, do you?_ ’).

 

  
Then Napoleon began to make bad decisions.

 

  
Illya’s confusion was too much for him to handle. Napoleon couldn’t swallow the twinge of guilt that tugged at his heart whenever Illya asked ‘ _Why?_ ’ and he couldn’t deal with the affections and concern that still seeped out of the Russian’s little actions no matter how mad Illya was at him.

 

  
So everything rotten officially started the night he brought a woman back into the hotel room with him, the timing done so accurately Illya ran into them before Napoleon could be stripped out of his suit. He can still see the look of betrayal if he closes his eyes, the way Illya curled his hands into fists and was ready to punch the living lights out of Napoleon.

 

  
But nothing happened, Illya just walked past them as Napoleon just carried on with the beautiful brunette who he should have been looking at more than the blonde man walking down the corridor with sunken shoulders.

 

  
And since then, they have been stuck in a vicious fight that used sex and fists as weapons. Illya’s not the type to indulge in sex, not as much as Napoleon, but even he began to bed whoever he deemed to be pleasing to his eyes — just to hurt Napoleon, who retaliated by moaning loudly into the audio tracker Illya always put in his and Gaby’s alarm clocks as a bellboy swallowed him whole.

 

  
Last night was but another war of theirs but Napoleon, regretfully, didn’t behave the way he usually would when Illya landed himself a quick rendezvous. It was the third time Illya was bringing the bright-eyed boy back to bed, and Napoleon felt a surge of rage, like Illya had crossed a line.

 

  
He terrorised the poor boy away, uncharacteristically, and was about wallow in his own frustration at his stupid actions before Illya came sweeping in, blue eyes clouded with red scraps of rage. Their fight had started fairly quickly, and this time Napoleon managed to keep his cool because this, this was usual and he knew the jabs all until Illya slammed him against a wall and kissed him.

 

  
_“Right, he’s but just another fling which I can replace within seconds. So what do you think, Cowboy? You ready for some action tonight? It’s just a fling, after all. You are used to it — being a replacement, a temporary fill in and nothing more.”_   


 

  
Napoleon broke a bottle of classic wine against the side of Illya for it, but made no protests when Illya began to strip them of their clothes. He had let a mistake happen last night, as the kiss began to remind him of everything he had, had wanted, and had been missing. He let his control go soft and clawed at Illya’s back as they fucked, even having the guts to want to mark Illya as his own for a while despite just telling the other that he ’ _is never going to be good for anyone to stay_ ’ minutes ago.

 

  
Then the alcohol knocked both of them out, and now Napoleon’s lying here wide awake, with Illya by his side.

 

  
It’s almost like he has a decision to make again, before the Russian wakes up, and Napoleon swallows tightly because it’s needless to think. They are in a rocket crashing down to disaster, and nothing can stop or prevent them from getting there.

 

And right at that conclusion, Napoleon releases a short bark of laughter, which is more like an angry sob, actually.

 

 

 

(‘Fuck you,’ Illya spits bitterly that morning and leaves the room with a loud slam of the door after his fist connected with Napoleon’s jaw for the third time.

 

Napoleon laughs to hide a sorrow he knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to not acknowledge.)

**Author's Note:**

> Just thought I'd like to make an angsty Napollya ficlet because, well. Just because-- I actually have a fuller, and lengthier version of this but the plot can't seem to wait, somehow so I wrote something out randomly. And oh! Shoutout to my favorite human, my waifu who always help to beta and read over my horrible tenses. xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoox


End file.
